


An Unexpected Find

by idlesuperstar, Jennytheshipper



Series: The Life And Death Of Sugar Candy [21]
Category: The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlesuperstar/pseuds/idlesuperstar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennytheshipper/pseuds/Jennytheshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clive’s explanations had not settled his fears. Clive was useless with words, he always had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Find

**Author's Note:**

> Follows directly on from [ _Wives and Revelations_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1032820), from Theo's POV. You really need to have read that one, before starting on this.
> 
>  
> 
> Series notes [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/36980)  
> 

Theo helped himself to one of Clive’s cigarettes from the box on the sideboard. He had not smoked a decent cigarette in weeks, and here was Clive with hundreds. And that dinner! He could almost suspect Murdoch of having dealings with the black market.  

Matches, matches. He patted his trouser pockets to no avail. Oh, but he had used his last one earlier. Clive was sure to have boxes of those too. He searched around the sideboard fruitlessly. Clive had gone to give Murdoch instructions about something. Theo was glad of a moment alone. What a day it had been. His awful despair at the tribunal, only to be saved heroically at the last minute by Sugar Candy. He had felt like the girl tied to the train tracks in a melodrama. How must he have looked at Clive in that cold room? Had he thrown his arms around Clive’s neck and kissed him it could not have been more obvious. But he could not help it. Sobbing like a child in front of Clive. He could not help that either. No use in regretting that. He started opening drawers in the sideboard. Nothing. Clive - with his talk of Barbara and Edith. He felt wildly and irrationally jealous of those two dead women. Here he was alone with Clive, at last, and still they were not alone. The house was full of ghosts.  

He paused, looking around. Where else, in this room? It was so very Clive, this room. Not like the dining room. That had changed, somehow. Yes, last time he had been here it was blue. Last time he had been here Clive could barely keep his hands off him. God, their desperate kisses in the cab, before that insane dinner party. Clive’s hands all over him, in front of all his English friends. That was so like Clive. He declared himself in actions. How he longed to get back to that place with that Clive, the easy way he had of touching and making everything better with just his hands. Like Moses. But there were all those years between them. All this distance. In the cab, Clive had pressed close, when he had fallen apart. But the pain in Clive’s voice when he told him how long he’d been in England. Clive was miles away now, it felt like. He supposed it would be up to him to reach out. He needed courage. Courage and a damn cigarette.  

God! Did the man have no matches? He moved over to the desk and tried a drawer. Writing paper and envelopes. _Freunde für immer_. They’d sworn. In Berlin. And here, in London, years later. Not just as young idiots. But - always was a long time. Was it possible the unchanging Clive Candy had changed? That promise. It had sustained him his whole life. Through the war. Through his marriage. Through these last hollow years. And now Clive saying Edith was his ideal! Lovely! Where did that leave him? His ideal! He sounded like a dreamer in a poem. Like a man who’d never been married. Theo wanted above all just to kiss him, to forget the world, but what if Clive no longer felt that way? And he needed Clive’s help so desperately. He couldn’t risk it. He knew Clive would help no matter what. He was always so kind. But the thought of Clive’s kind charity terrified him. Pride. It had kept them apart so long. Theo was surprised to find that - even after sobbing in front of Clive - he had some left.    

Damn the man! Were matches rationed? Another drawer offered up nothing but what looked like IOU chits from card games. Clive had obviously improved over the years. Theo paused, smiling faintly at the memory of all their card games, back in the hospital. All the games he threw to let Clive win, to gain his trust, to make him happy. When had Clive gone from an easy mark to a friend? He might as well ask himself when he had fallen in love. Theo was determined to play straight with Clive now. No more games.  

Another drawer. How tidy this desk was, how very like Clive it was. Military precision, still. On the outside. Was he still full of fire, open hearted, underneath? Perhaps the desk would tell him. He shook his head at such fanciful ideas. What was this? Postcards? He rifled through them, disinterestedly, until a view of Berlin made him stop. Good god, were they - ? He picked up a handful, turned them over. Yes, his handwriting! All the silly postcards he’d sent to Clive, over the years. And his heart, here, all over them. How transparent they were. So Clive had kept them, just as he had kept Clive’s to him. And here - he shuffled through the drawer, almost eagerly - here a letter. He looked at the smudged postmark but it was indecipherable. An old five pfennig stamp. Almost antique. The letter though - he winced at his terrible English in it. Like a child’s. It was the one he had sent with that photograph. Vanity! But Clive had sent his too, by return, so he must have been pleased. Yet the photograph was not here. Perhaps he had - oh, but who knew what had happened to it. Theo put the letter back, closed the drawer softly. This drawer with his foolish heart in it; was it too much to hope that it must mean something?

He tried the final drawer in the desk, having nearly missed it. Almost a hidden drawer. As he pulled it open something rolled down the inside. He picked it up, curious. A ring. Barbara’s wedding ring? Yes. What  a romantic Clive was to keep it all these years. He had loved her terribly, he had said. That had hurt to hear. Hypocritical of him, to be so jealous. Yet he was. Selfish! He wanted to be Clive’s only love. To be his ideal. He snorted. He was no-one’s ideal. And how could he begrudge Clive any happiness? But what had Barbara been to him, in the end? A lover? An ideal like Edith? Clive’s explanations had not settled his fears. Clive was useless with words, he always had been. Theo put the ring back gently, no clearer in his mind. 

Was this too much, him poking around in Clive’s things? Clive would surely not mind. Once he had had no secrets from Theo. What else? A small case, jewellery perhaps? No, of course, Clive’s VC. How like him to keep it polished but tucked away. Theo’s curiosity got the better of his manners. What else was in this drawer of precious things? There was a piece of cloth wrapped around something. He picked it up, feeling its softness. Worn and well used, whatever it was. He unwrapped it gently, not wanting to damage the fabric. At the centre was a button. Was that all? What memories could a button hold? And then - as if the decades dropped away - he recognised it. It was _his_. His stomach lurched. His button - the one he had lost that night with Clive, in their drunken scuffling. Of course it was. He had polished the damn thing often enough to recognise it. Dear God! And this - was it possible? He unfolded the fabric fully, hardly daring to believe. But yes. The faded monogram. This was _his_ handkerchief. One of the ones he had left in Clive’s room like a lovestruck girl. Maybe this was even - God! - the one they had used, that last morning, to -

“I’ve fixed your car home, old thing, more’s the pity! We’ve still got a few minutes. Let’s - ” and Clive’s voice broke off suddenly. Theo realised he was staring stupidly at the handkerchief in his hand. He looked up at Clive, standing stock still by the open door. Clive was staring at him almost fearfully. 

“Clive - I am so sorry. I did not mean to snoop. I was looking for matches. I did not - ” he broke off, flustered, nearly faint with hope. 

“Theo,” said Clive, coming towards him slowly. “It’s.” He paused. “It’s alright. I’ve nothing to hide from you, you know that.” Theo could feel his face burning. He looked at Clive. Brave, foolish Clive, who was fearing the worst and yet still laid himself bare. God! How the years fell away. The idiot could not hide his feelings to save his life. 

“Clive,” he smiled at his friend, the handkerchief - that stupid, wonderful handkerchief - still in his hand. “Clive, I called you a romantic, earlier. I had no idea quite how true that was, until just now.”

“I expect you’ll call me a fool, too,” said Clive, sounding embarrassed. There was uncertainty in his voice, Theo could hear it. 

“I feel as if we must have this conversation every time we meet, my friend. And each time, you are the brave one, and I am the fool. Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive, old horse.”

“There is. I had hoped - but I did not dare believe it. And then I find this.” He gestured with the handkerchief. 

“It’s just and old hankie,” said Clive, turning his head away. Oh no, my friend. No more hiding. No more stupid pride. 

“Clive, you idiot. Truly. Shall I tell you something?” Oh, hope was making him bold. 

“If you must,” mumbled Clive. 

“Did you never notice, when you were packing your things, that morning?”

“Notice what?” asked Clive, and oh, yes, his face - he knew which morning Theo meant. 

“Were you not missing a shirt?”

“A shirt? Well, yes. I missed it once I was home. I thought the laundry had lost it. Are you saying - ” Clive’s face was a picture. 

“Yes, Clive. I took it. That morning when I left. All our clothes were mixed up - ” Theo glanced at Clive and saw him blush a little at that “ - and I picked it up with mine in my hurry. Not as romantic a gesture as _this_ \- ” he smiled fondly at Clive, waving the handkerchief at him “ - but when I realised. Well. I could not bear to give it back.”

“I’m not surprised. That was a good shirt.”

“Clive you idiot. I am trying to tell you - ” Theo grasped Clive’s lapel, forcing Clive to look him in the eye.  “I sat there on my bed that morning, with your damned shirt in my hands, and I could not put it down. It smelled of you. Of your cigarettes, and your hair oil, and your sweat - and - ” he broke off, and turned away. 

“Theo - ”

“No, shut up, Clive. I am telling you what a romantic fool I was.”

“Back in Berlin, you mean?” asked Clive in a small voice. He is still not sure, thought Theo. He has kept that handkerchief all these years, and still he is not sure of me.

“Was? _Am_. I still have it.” Clive looked at him in disbelief. My God, would he still not see?  

“Yes, Clive. It is true.” He nodded wearily; gathered his strength for one last confession. “I am an exile from my country. I have only three shirts which I must take great care of lest they fray, they are so old. I used to have a whole wardrobe full of shirts, you know. And now all my possessions fit into one suitcase. And at the bottom of that suitcase is an English shirt from forty years ago that I have never worn, and cannot bear to launder for fear the scent would fade even more than it already has. _Now_ who is the romantic fool?”  

He threw the handkerchief back into the drawer and turned sharply away from Clive. God, I need a drink, he thought. And a fucking cigarette. He walked over to the sideboard and poured two drinks with shaking hands. Then there was the warm presence of Clive at his back, and the familiar weight of Clive’s hand on his arm. Finally, God, _finally_. 

“I think - I think we’re equal, then, aren’t we, old thing?” Clive asked, shakily. And oh, God, _God_ the relief. Theo gripped the sideboard, legs weak. Breathe. He turned to Clive, hand still trembling, and handed him a drink. Threw his own whisky back, feeling the burn of it gladly. Clive still had the good stuff here, too. 

“Clive,” he said, and Clive looked up at him with such open tenderness. Too much, almost. “Please -  tell me you have some matches. I was only looking for matches. I desperately need a cigarette.” 

Clive looked surprised for a moment before breaking into a laugh. Theo found himself laughing along with him, unable to stop. He felt slightly hysterical. The girl in the melodrama again. He put down his empty glass and took Clive’s from him, turned back to face him, took his hands. Oh, Clive’s familiar hands, how they had not changed. How intimate it was, the hot skin of his palms, the firm grip. 

“My friend. What idiots we both are. Before, we were young idiots. Now we are old idiots. At least we did not change.”

“Old! Speak for yourself! I’m sixty four. That’s not old. I feel like a twenty four year old.”

“You know, Clive, I think you are right. I think part of you will always be that young man that I duelled.”

“No, Theo. Not him. He really was an idiot. But the other one.” Clive’s face was serious, suddenly. How different he looked when he was serious. In his memories Clive was never serious. 

“The other one?”

“The one after that. The one who was your friend.”

“Ach, yes. Him. Well, he was an alright fellow.”

“Hey!”

“Truly, Clive,” and it was Theo’s turn to be serious now. “He was the best of men.” He looked at Clive’s face, saw the blush, the readiness to demur, clasped Clive’s hands more tightly. “No, Clive he was. And, you know, he made me want to be the best of men too.”

“Theo! But you are! I have always said it.”

“Clive! You and your great heart - ” and he unthinkingly put his hand on Clive’s chest, over that valiant heart. Clive stilled, and looked at him, and - God - there was no fear in his face, no worry, nothing but openness and warmth. 

“Theo,” Clive whispered, as if speaking louder would dislodge Theo’s hand. And yes, perhaps it was the only thing left to say. The only thing they had needed to say, had either of them been brave enough. Clive had been brave enough for them both. 

“I will say it, Clive. And, you know, I think this will be the last time I need to. Because - unless I am forced to - I cannot leave. Not again. So.” He looked into Clive’s face, changed and yet so familiar, and Clive put a shaking hand over Theo’s own unsteady heart.

“Mein Herz, Clive. It is yours.”

“Mein Herz, Theo. It’s yours. It’s _always_ been yours.” Clive’s eyes were fierce. They gazed at each other, held fast in the moment, then suddenly a loud knock and a less than subtle cough from beyond the barely closed door. Murdoch! God! Theo had forgotten him.

“General, sir, the car is here for - ”

“Yes, yes, Murdoch!” called Clive, snappishly. “Five minutes! We’ll be out then! Damnation,” he said more quietly, turning his attention back to Theo. “What was that you said? You wouldn’t leave again?” he asked, wryly. “Are we never to have any blasted peace?”

“Not in wartime, my friend, it seems.”

“Well, look old man. I’m off early in the morning as you know, but by god as soon as I’m back, I’ll sort this mess out as best I can. At the very least I’ll get round this damned curfew.”

“Clive - ” 

“Theo, it’s the least I can do. Really. It’s nothing. Don’t fret,” and his voice turned fond again. “Now,” he said, taking his hand off Theo’s chest. Dear god, they’d been standing like that all this time. Clive grasped Theo’s arms. “You had to ask last time,” said Clive, his voice husky, “so I shall ask this time. And after this there will be no need to ask ever again, because the answer will always be yes. Will you kiss me?” 

 

An hour ago, even half an hour ago, Theo had thought this might never be. Yet here was Clive, the brave fool, offering everything. He took Clive’s dear face in his hands and kissed him, softly. But this was Clive Candy in his arms, and Clive kissed him back fiercely, as he always had done. Theo responded in kind, almost desperate, forgetting the waiting car. Clive’s hands, god his _hands_ , were in his hair, on his arm, his waist, his arse. Yes, _yes_ , _fuck_ this was all he had wanted. They were pressed tight against each other, and Theo felt the sideboard digging into the back of his thighs, but he could not stop kissing Clive. All those dark nights, all the worry, it was nothing to this moment. He could weep at the joy of it. He burrowed his hands under Clive’s jacket, felt the broad warmth of his back through his shirt, the flood of memory at the smell of him. He wanted to feel skin under his hands, Clive’s warm, strong, real body under his hands. A rush of arousal at that. He wanted to spread Clive out on his bed and take him apart. Clive broke the kiss, pressed his hot face to Theo’s neck, back heaving, holding Theo so tightly, and Theo felt lightened by it, like a sponge wrung out. He felt - not exactly young, like Clive claimed, but not so old, now. Never so old as he’d been earlier in that tribunal. A wash of tenderness came over him at that, remembering his rescuer. He stroked a calming hand over Clive’s neck. Oh, Clive Candy. _Du lieber Geschöpf. Mein Held. Es ist in Ordnung jehzt, mein Freund. Wir haben einander._ 1

“What’s that?” Clive mumbled in his neck.  

Theo realised he’d been murmuring in German in Clive’s ear. He smiled.  

“You never would learn German. Never mind. There is still time to teach you. Another day.” He steeled himself for what was to come. Another parting. The easiest way, he knew, was to make light of it.  

Clive heaved a great sigh and drew slowly away, turned his face to Theo. That shining face! No secrets there.

“Clive, look at us. What a state,” Theo said, breathing out a laugh. He started tucking himself in, trying to get control. Impossible, the way Clive was looking at him. “Clive, if you continue to look at me I will embarrass myself in front of your driver.”

“Oh, that would never do!” laughed Clive, with the smugness of a man who did not have an uncomfortable journey ahead. Theo tugged his suit jacket down and smoothed a hand over his hair. His overcoat would hide the worst of it, thank god.

“Clive Candy, you are a heartless wretch,” he said with mock severity. Clive merely grinned in reply. 

“Sir!” came Murdoch’s vexed shout from the hallway. 

“Alright, Murdoch!” Clive shouted back.

“Clive, I will see you on your return, yes?”

“Of course, Theo. As I promised. It should be no more than a week. Have a safe journey back. And - ” he paused, a look of joy on his face, “ - when I get back, come for dinner. We can finish what we’ve started,” he said, voice low and husky. 

“Oh, yes, mein Freund, I shall hold you to that promise,” he said, equally low. He took Clive’s face gently in his hands, and kissed him briefly. “That must serve for now, Clive. Come along.”  He touched a hand to Clive’s back, steered him out of the room, found Murdoch with his coat and stick, vibrating with the effort of staying out of the room.

“Thank you, Murdoch. I am sorry we have kept you waiting.” It would not do to have Murdoch against him.

“Quite all right sir, quite all right. I know how the General gets.”

Clive was about to erupt at Murdoch for insubordination. He needed to go. He had to shake hands with Clive at the door or Murdoch would be suspicious. Handshakes! Civility! He wanted more than handshakes. But he could wait, now. A week, only.

“Goodbye Clive, have a nice journey.” 

“Don’t worry about anything, everything’s under control,” Clive replied, gruffly. He was trembling, Theo could feel it as he unclasped their hands. 

He wished Murdoch luck, to distract Clive from arguing with him again, and then the door was shut behind him and he was safely settled into the car. Oh but how he wanted Clive in here with him, pressed close in the darkness. 

He luxuriated in the privacy of the backseat, wrapping his overcoat a little more snugly around himself. And then he carefully added the most precious gem yet to his collection of memories of Clive Candy. _Yet_. The word both thrilled and terrified. To think of the future was to admit to hope. He took his time, remembering every detail; the feel of that faded cloth in his hand, the glint of his old button, Clive’s chest warm beneath his hand, the urgency of Clive’s kisses. The smell of him; cigarettes and aftershave and warm skin. He huffed out an unsteady breath. If he were not careful things would get - . He was not alone, yet. Better to focus on the present. Make small talk with Clive’s driver.

“It must be difficult driving in the blackout?” he ventured.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, sir,” the driver said. A girl! He had forgotten. There was something about her voice. It was almost like - no. Nonsense. Clive’s maudlin reveries had set him off as well. He continued talking, almost automatically; and the more she spoke, the more he was struck by her voice - she really _did_ sound like Edith. She raced to make a light, but missed it. Some spark there. He squinted in the dark, trying to see her face, but it was no use. She was telling him now how she got the job, how the General had picked her out of a line-up of hundreds. In the brief illumination of a passing car he saw her for a moment. Edith. His Edith. Clive’s Edith. Edith of ’02. The ideal. He was going mad. Clive Candy had finally driven him mad.  

What would Edith have made of their evening, of their tears for her, their confessions? And what of the close of the evening? Would she haunt them forever? He liked to think that she would understand, if not approve. The girl, the driver, watched him in the rear-view mirror. Theo fancied for a moment it was Edith watching him; a guardian angel, he hoped, not the avenging sort. Had Edith guessed about Clive? Was he wrong to keep that last secret from her? Poor girl, she’d been through so much as it was. But, God, the resemblance was uncanny. Perhaps it was the lightness imparted by Clive’s embrace, perhaps it was relief, but Theo felt suddenly playful.  

“What is your first name, Miss Cannon?”

“Angela.”

“Lovely name. It comes from angel, doesn’t it?” Theo said. Surely this was more than coincidence?

“I think it stinks. My friends call me ‘Johnny,’” she said with spirit. Theo smiled to himself at his mad fancy. No, this angel was flesh and blood. The resemblance was remarkable though. Of course that was why Clive had picked her over the others. Theo had thought that Clive seeing Edith in Barbara was a bit of his nonsense, but this girl! She had that same spark of competitiveness that Edith had had when they ran for that rowing boat, a lifetime ago.    

“Is it this crossing or the next?” she asked. They were nearing his bedsit. He had no wish for her to catch sight of his dismal circumstances. She might report back to her boss. Pride, again. It would always be there. 

He got out of the car and shook Angela’s hand. She was lovely and strong, like Edith. He had an urge to kiss her hand before he returned it. The old instinct. Protect, flirt, do your duty, fulfil your promise to Clive. But of course, that duty was discharged. It was Clive who needed protecting now. Clive was his responsibility. And she was young enough to be his daughter. He looked at Angela before disappearing into the dark. Recalled how fondly she’d spoken of Clive. Here was an ally, he thought.  

“I’d like to see your boyfriend one of these days,” he said, trying to adopt a fatherly pose. He was out of practice, sounded awkward to his own ears.

“So would I,” she shot back and Theo laughed, watching for a moment as she drove away, and then hurrying on his way, thinking of the curfew. 

 

Theo sank wearily onto the edge of the sagging bed and studied his little room. It felt almost cosy, with its small lamp and the curtains closed. With the world shut out. He tried to imagine Clive here, taking up all the space, sitting on the ancient bed. Impossible. He really was going mad. He hated this place. At least - he had.   

It was a good thing Clive probably had a decent bed. A spike of arousal at that thought. Spreading Clive out on clean warm sheets. This one wasn’t up to much. Narrow, like that one of Clive’s all those years ago. And it creaked abominably. They were too old for such things. Finally, they were to have time. He could barely allow the thought. He was so tired. The calm after the crisis. He undressed and folded his clothes carefully away; put on his pyjamas. He stood for a moment, breathing slowly, as he had so many times before; then bent down stiffly and pulled open the bottom drawer of his battered dressing table. He took the shirt carefully from the drawer, and laid it on the bed. How many unworthy beds had he lain it out on? He gently unfolded the sleeves and spread them out. And now, only now could he admit their lifelessness, with the memory of Clive’s strong arms still fresh. He stroked his fingers lightly over the fabric. He knew it better than he knew Clive’s skin. He could allow himself to admit that now. Knew its scent so well that he had never realised how faint it was, how much of it had been lost in cupboards and wardrobes and his footlocker, over the last forty years. And then Clive, real in his arms, the smell of him; it was like a Technicolour film, overwhelming. Almost too much. But not enough. Never enough. 

Now, back in this awful room, with this most precious thing, it was like a thousand other nights, and the evening’s events suddenly seemed unreal. But he could still - he got up urgently, opened the wardrobe, pulled out his suit jacket. Yes, there. He held it to his face, breathed it in. There was the smell of Clive, of his cigar, his aftershave. He stood for a moment, the fabric rough against his face, tears brimming. Stupid. But the relief. He breathed in unsteadily, straightened, put the jacket back. What a child! Was Clive doing the same, clutching at empty clothes? Unlikely. But then, he had kept that handkerchief. He was just as bad. Theo smiled to himself, and crossed back to the bed, sitting down. He touched the shirt lightly; the slight fray on the left cuff, the smudge of dirt on the front. How he’d wished, over the years, that he’d been the one to pull Clive’s strong body out of this shirt. To have that memory to go with it. Romantic nonsense. He’d torn his own shirt off quickly enough, that night. Desperate, they had both been. 

He folded the shirt back up carefully. It was worn in places with folding and unfolding over the years. He smoothed it with his hands, brought it up to his face, breathed in the faint scent. In some ways it reminded him more of his loneliness than of Clive. Again, he could admit that thought, now. This would be the last time, though. The brief flare of joy at that. He was too tired to keep it at bay. Anything could happen  between now and Clive’s return. But he could not help it. There was hope within him again. He stood up,  put the shirt back in its place and slid the drawer shut with finality.    

They really should rest together, he thought, getting into bed, the shirt and the handkerchief; these fragile old sentimental things. Not here, in this shabby room. They should be in Clive’s home. He reached onto the bedside table for his pack of cheap cigarettes, his matches. He lit one, watched it flare erratically. He should have pocketed some of Clive’s. He lay back against the pillow, huddling the bedclothes around himself, trying to get warm. He breathed out smoke, suddenly exhausted. In a way, the curfew was a blessing. Had he stayed - another faint shiver of arousal - he would have been fit for nothing. A disappointment. Clive deserved better. Would it be silly, he wondered, to take the shirt with him, when he went back? Clive would not laugh. And they would be warm together, in Clive’s big bed, old sentimental things themselves. Soon. What was another week, he thought with something like hope, after twenty years. Only another week. 

 

* * *

 

 

1You dear creature. My hero. It is alright now, my friend. We have each other.

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-written in a very literal way: **idlesuperstar** wrote a wee story, **jennytheshipper** rewrote it because she'd written the first (though not chronologically) Theo story, and found his voice, and we kept on doing that until it ended up as this. After the first terrifying moments, it was a rather exciting way to write. 
> 
> There are small, almost throwaway lines in canon that can spark something; way back in 1902 when Clive is packing to go home, he tells Edith, "half a mo, those are Theo's," when she starts to pack some handkerchiefs. And that became one of the series motifs for me. As for the shirt, this is where the idea started (after a small "is it too Brokeback?" conversation); one day I heard Theo's little speech in my head, pictured him that spring morning, sitting on his bed in the hospital. (Handy hint: try not to invent something in a later story that you have to go and put in all the previous ones. It's a bugger. We keep doing it to ourselves).
> 
> Many squishy thanks as well to **tea-with-theo** for the German translation.


End file.
